Wednesday, September 3, 2014

THE INNOCENTS: Blu-ray (2oth Century-Fox 1961) Criterion Home Video

Movies have
the power to engage; some by stirring our emotions, others by testing the
intellectual voracity of the audience. Jack Clayton’s courageous adaptation of
Henry James novella, The Turning of the Screw, rechristened
The Innocents (1961) does both,
sending the proverbial chill down our collective backsides as a bonus, while
encouraging varied interpretations about the slow unraveling of a young woman’s
psyche. Is sexually repressed governess, Miss Giddens (Deborah Kerr) truly
experiencing elements of the supernatural come to wreak havoc on this pastoral,
if isolated, English estate she calls home? Or is her lack of life experience
and an overactive imagination playing tricks, generating hallucinations before
her very eyes? Truman Capote and William Archibald’s screenplay never paints us
into a narrative corner with definitive proof either way, and, neither does
Deborah Kerr’s seminal performance as this tortured and chaste caregiver, who
winds up needing more than a little TLC and ounce of redemption by the final
fade out.

Capote, who is
credited with writing virtually all the dialogue, actually based his prose on
Archibald’s stagecraft, using Henry James’ novella merely as framework rather
than his definitive guideline. Capote also managed to interject a Freudian
subtext into this traditional ‘southern gothic’ thriller, transplanted to this
courtly Tudor manor of an English lord. In retrospect, The Innocents is a sort of Downton
Abbey for restless spirits and demonic possession; its lush foliage and
serene natural splendor caught in an elegant decay; the pall of the dead
lingering around every cobwebbed corner or cautiously looming from the
peripheries along each hallway, upstairs attic and antechamber. Director,
Clayton was circumspect in his translation from page to screen, determined The Innocents should not mimic the then
popular cycle in Hammer horror films, that, personally, he found generally
lacking in subtly and, on the whole, rather garish and tasteless. No one could
accuse The Innocents of being that!

Here is a film
utterly saturated in gorgeous imagery; Freddie Francis’ cinematography a
sumptuous feast for the eye. The natural beauty, even the stately grandeur of
Tudor architecture is, alas, plagued by an element of morbidity; Clayton’s use
of uncanny noises with seemingly no source, married to Francis’ moodily lit
interiors, creates a perverse vacuum of baited anticipation; the morose languor
of the piece gradually giving way to a beguiling, if utterly paralytic trepidation,
able to cause the heart to skip a beat. Interestingly, Henry James deplored his
own authorship, referring to The Turn of the Screw as his ‘shameless potboiler’. Indeed, the film
wastes no time plummeting into this abyss – the first forty-five seconds of
screen time dedicated to nothing except a child’s lonely hum, taking on an
ominous pseudo-religious point of reference. Thereafter, The Innocents plies us with elements of a grand ghost story. But it
gradually unwinds with unease from a centric hub of Miss Giddon’s unsuspecting naiveté.

Jack Clayton
was to endure considerable criticism for distilling James’ thematic elements
into more straightforward spookiness. Fair enough, Clayton mangles his Freudian
subtext – on occasion, badly. But set aside this narrative fumble and the rest
is visually arresting, exquisitely concocted and a genuine scalp-prickling bone-chiller
besides. Capote and Archibald’s screenplay oozes with uncertainty and menace. Only
in hindsight does The Innocents endure
as an uber-sophisticated suspense movie, more knowing and sagaciously scripted
than its contemporaries; the tried and true ‘dark old house’ formula, remarkably resilient, but herein given to
unpretentiousness and wholly absent of cliché. Lest we forget, The Innocents hit theaters just a scant
three years after William Castles’ ghoulish, though occasionally menial, House on Haunted Hill (1958). It also
predates Robert Wise’s psychologically grotesque The Haunting (1963); both films stooping to satisfy the
traditionalist’s expectation for a good fright.

But The Innocents is Clayton’s master class
‘horse of a different color’;
technically as proficient, if not more so, than the aforementioned movies, yet
with a faultless aura of the damned that mingles the subconscious with the
supernatural. As such, the movie’s visceral beauty teeters on the edge of a
queer psychological gulf; an almost clinical attractiveness, destined to
intoxicate, then fray the nerves of our dulcet heroine. Clayton’s aspirations
to tell a cerebrally creepy children’s bedtime story does not mark the movie
as highbrow; although compared to its contemporaries, The Innocents remains a distinct cut above in both its pedigree and
pedagogy: polished film-making to the nth degree, exchanging its exceptional
literary source material for some very fine dabbling in the visual arts.

This
dichotomous relationship is evident from the very start, even before the first
image of a woman’s nervously praying hands appears. Immediately following the
20th Century-Fox trademark, we simply hear a child’s song set against the black
nothingness of the Cinemascope screen. The tune is at once virginal yet
malignant, its dissenting chords establishing both the putrefaction and
elegance that will envelope the audience for the next 100 minutes. Lensed with dream-like precision by cinematographer,
Freddie Francis, The Innocents is lyrical,
even as its claustrophobic style increasingly transitions to a more apocalyptic
foreboding. Like all great works of art – cinematic, or otherwise – The Innocents asks more probing
questions than it ultimately answers. However, it does not leave the viewer
feeling cheated or unfulfilled. On the contrary, the story rivets us to our
seats. It compels our participation, drawing us into the inner anxieties and
revelations of our protagonist, but without making any suggestion we should
either believe or disbelieve what she inevitably comes to appreciate as the
unholy truth.

We begin our
tale of peril inside the stately London offices of an unnamed gentleman
(Michael Redgrave) interviewing for a governess’ position to care for two
orphaned children he has begrudgingly acquired after the death of their
parents. The uncle admits to his lack of feeling toward precocious, Flora
(Pamela Franklin) and her clever-beyond-his-years brother, Miles (Martin
Stephens). Our unnamed lord prefers elegant parties and a life dedicated to the
pursuit of his own meaningless pleasures. He has no interest in assuming any
real responsibility for the rearing of these two young charges. Interestingly,
the uncle is hardly an ogre. In fact, he has been meticulous in affording Flora
and Miles the luxuries that only money can buy. Unfortunately, Miss Jessel
(Clytie Jessop), the last governess he hired, died on the estate under
suspicious circumstances. Her loss nearly broke young Flora’s heart, and it is
largely for her sake the uncle sincerely hopes his latest choice of governess
will be able, not only to sustain the position, but ingratiate herself as a
suitable surrogate mother-figure.

Repressed
spinster, Miss Giddens (Deborah Kerr) has applied for the job. But when asked
to accept the post after little more than a few moments interview, she finds it
difficult to commit…at least, at first. Some strange and otherworldly
reservations are restraining her; a cloud of anxiety that quietly lifts from
her conscience as her carriage arrives at Bly; the vast country estate where
Flora has been living quietly in exile while brother, Miles is away at school. From
the moment Miss Giddens meets Flora she is captivated by her angelic and
wistful charm; a fortuitous bond that housekeeper, Mrs. Grose (Megs Jenkins)
prays will bring peace to the house once more. Mrs. Grose is an odd one indeed;
kindly and devoted to her young mistress and Bly, but imbued with an ever-so-slight
sense of unease.

This often
hints at a more harrowing ancestral past Miss Giddens can only guess at. The
next few days pass uneventfully, however, and Miss Giddens and Flora becoming
inseparable. Indeed, Miss Giddens sleeps in Flora’s room. But unbeknownst to
Miss Giddens, Flora keeps vigilant watch over her; even standing over her bed
with a queer smile as she restlessly sleeps. Flora confides in Miss Giddens
that, very soon, Miles will be coming home. But as it is still many months
before the summer holiday, Miss Giddens doubts Flora’s claim and chalks it up
to the longings of a child, desperate to be reunited with her only brother.

Several days
later a letter from the school’s headmaster does indeed arrive, informing Miss
Giddens Miles has been expelled for being a bad influence on the other boys. Mrs.
Grose tells Miss Giddens she cannot imagine Miles ever being a bad influence on
anyone, though her tone is strangely reticent about seeing the boy again. Miss
Giddens and Flora meet Miles’ train, and although Miss Giddens has every
intention of learning the exact reason for Miles’ expulsion, she quietly sets
aside her initial inquisitiveness when Miles proves undeniably cordial, if
rather astutely too mature for his years, even flirting with her as he presents
a fresh bouquet of wild flowers at the station.

For the next
few days all is right on the estate as Miles and Flora delight in their play
time together. But very soon, Miss Giddens becomes mildly disturbed by their
secret world; a kinetic – almost telepathic – sense of communication and
understanding that goes well beyond normal familial ties. These feelings of
unease are compounded when Miss Giddens witnesses a strange man staring at her
in the garden from the estate’s tower ledge. Racing to the rooftop, Miss
Giddens finds Miles calmly playing with some pigeons. She asks him who the man
was, but Miles suggests he has been alone up there all along.

Sometime
later, Miss Giddens agrees to partake in a game of hide and seek with the
children to stave off the tedium of a rainy afternoon. Miles hides in the
attic. However, on her journey upstairs to find him, Miss Giddens is caught
unawares by a shadowy figure skulking behind the curtains in the upstairs hall.
Entering the attic, Miss Giddens is astonished when Miles lunges from his
hiding spot, violently grabbing her around the neck. Declaring he is hurting
her does little to dissuade Miles as he tightens his grip, until Flora bursts
in on them. The children then suggest it is Miss Giddens turn to hide. But as
she races downstairs and takes her place behind the heavy drapes inside the
library, Miss Giddens is suddenly startled to see the leering face of the same
man she saw from the garden pressed against the rain-soaked glass pane.

From her
detailed description, Mrs. Grose tells Miss Gibbens she must have seen Miss
Jessel and Peter Quint (Peter Wyngarde) – the uncle’s valet. Only she couldn’t
have, as both are quite dead. After some consternation, Mrs. Grose reveals the
sordid details of an abusive affair between Miss Jessel and Quint; one that
included very indiscreet sexual liaisons in front of the servants and the
children. Eventually, Quint tired of Jessel and cast her aside before
accidentally dying. With her reputation in ruins, Jessel succumbed to extreme
melancholia and drowned herself in the nearby lake not long afterward.

To ease their
boredom, the children suggest a game of dress-up in old clothes from the attic
to put on a show for Miss Giddens and Mrs. Grose. Miss Giddens willingly agrees
to the charade. But when Miles recites a cryptic poem about a ‘lost lord’
rising from his grave, Miss Giddens begins to suspect the spirits of Quint and
Jessel have come back to possess the children and continue their
relationship. That evening Miss Giddens
is awakened by a disturbing dream. She finds Flora standing at the bedroom
window, gazing down at Miles who is strolling through the garden. Miss Giddens
hurries downstairs and ushers Miles to his room. But once alone with him, Miles
provocatively takes Miss Giddens’ face in his hands and kisses her on the lips
as an impassioned suitor might.

Preferring to
set aside the incident, Miss Giddens takes the children to the lake for an
outing the next day. Flora demands to row a tiny boat, but Miles insists she is
not strong enough and takes the ores himself instead, leaving the shore without
her. Flora responds by taking her toy boat to the waters to play. As Miss Giddens
gaze shifts beyond Flora she suddenly sees a gaunt and mysterious woman, soaked
through to the bone in her clothes, her hair matted, jealously staring back at
them with sunken eyes from the marshes on the opposite bank. Convinced these
apparitions will vanish if the children admit to seeing them, Miss Giddens
demands Flora acknowledge Miss Jessel’s ghost.

Instead, Flora
begins to cry, calling Miss Giddens wicked and insane. Hours later, her
hysteria remains unabated. Fearing for her soul, Miss Giddens orders Mrs. Grose
to take Flora and leave Bly at once. She will remain behind with Miles and make
him confess to seeing Quint. But the truth is hardly forthcoming. Miles is coy
and evasive, even as Miss Giddens continues to press him on the facts
surrounding his expulsion from school. Refusing to surrender her quest for the
truth, Miss Giddens eventually gets Miles to recall the specter of Peter Quint,
his smirking visage appearing in a reflection through the steamy window behind
Miles. Miles runs off. But Miss Giddens pursues him, telling Miles he must
admit to seeing Quint if the spell that haunts Bly is to be forever broken.
Instead Quint reappears in the garden, raising his hand against the child who
goes limp in Miss Giddens’ arms. Cradling Miles, and believing the curse has
ended, Miss Giddens suddenly realizes the child is quite dead. Trembling with
fear, she leans in and kisses Miles on his cold unresponsive lips.

The Innocents is as perversely troubling a tale of terror as has
ever been put on the screen. The film’s strength is its uncanny ability to
elicit sheer fright largely from nothing more than the spirit of our own
collective imaginations, cleverly tweaked to maximize our dread. Deborah Kerr
is magnificent as the cloistered, socially/sexually repressed governess who
finds a strange burgeoning liberation in her equally unsettling and odd
relationship with Flora - and particularly - Miles. Jack Clayton’s direction
gets startlingly good performances from the entire cast; especially young
Martin Stephens, who does indeed seem to be imbued with the devilish spirit of
a wanton womanizer at least twice his natural age. There is something so
freakishly unnerving and diabolically disconcerting, yet eerily real and
natural about Stephen’s portrayal, one can only assume he was heavily coached
into it even if there remains a hauntingly unrehearsed quality about it.

On the
surface, at least, The Innocents
carries the appeal of the traditional ‘dark
old house’ thriller. But Clayton has
astutely reassessed this warhorse subgenre, recognizing what is never seen or
adequately explained is far more disturbing than anything the audience could
ever be shown. Freddie Francis’ camerawork elevates Miss Giddens’ paranoia into
a theater of our collective darkest fears. This paralyzes reason, even as it
stirs Miss Giddens from her complacency into action to protect ‘the innocence’
of her young wards. Francis fills his anamorphic compositions with a stunning
array of moldering shrubbery and dilapidated statuary, heightening the gothic malaise
of these restless undead who continue to plague and corrupt the living with
their unfinished and unfathomably aberrant sexual desires. In the final
analysis, The Innocents is an adult
horror classic, richly disturbing and psychologically complex.

Criterion Home
Video’s newly remastered Blu-ray does the film a long overdue justice. Previous
incarnations of The Innocents on
home video have all been moderately appealing at best. But Criterion’s is the
first to effectively capture the sumptuousness of Freddie Francis’ deep focus
cinematography; also, to correct the noticeable horizontal stretching of the
image – affectionately known as ‘the Cinemascope mumps’. We get none of that
here, but a razor-sharp, slightly darker, and infinitely more film-like
presentation that is overall a winner.
Gray scale tonality is much improved as is film grain, looking natural
and consistent throughout. The PCM mono audio is fairly flat, presumably in
keeping with the original release, although George Auric’s sparse score does
sound considerably more robust this time around.

Extras are a mixed bag. Criterion
has received permission to regurgitate the old intro and audio commentary
released on BFI’s U.K. Blu-ray release. Frayling’s astute
observations remain the highlight of Criterion’s disc too, the only other
extras being a new interview with cinematographer, John Bailey, and ‘making of’
featurette with interviews recorded in 2006 of Francis, editor Jim Clark, and
script supervisor, Pamela Mann Francis. Each runs less than twenty minutes - much too short to be considered comprehensive. We also get a trailer and a fairly
comprehensive essay by critic, Maitland McDonagh. Bottom line: highly
recommended!

About Me

Nick Zegarac is a freelance writer/editor and graphics artist. He holds a Masters in Communications and an Honors B.A in Creative Lit from the University of Windsor.
He is currently a freelance writer and has been a contributing editor for Black Moss Press and is a featured contributor to online's The Subtle Tea. He's also has had two screenplays under consideration in Hollywood.
Last year he finished his first novel and is currently searching for an agent to represent him.
Contact Nick via email at movieman@sympatico.ca